


Happiness Is a Warm Gun

by Yuripaws



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Happy Ending, I know 'mafia' isn't the correct term for it but please bear with me for the tagging haha, Journalism, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mafia Victor Nikiforov, Mafia Zine, Past Violence, Post-Prison, Redemption, Tattoos, Viktor may or may not be a masochist with a tattoo pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 12:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14449194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuripaws/pseuds/Yuripaws
Summary: Yuuri's tattoo parlor has always been open to clientele from all walks of life, but the last thing he'd ever expect is a visit from former convict Viktor Nikiforov.





	Happiness Is a Warm Gun

**Author's Note:**

> We finally get to post our Mafia Zine pieces! This was so much fun and I couldn't have had a smoother ride for my first zine experience. <3 Much love to the mods for putting this together!
> 
> As I planned things out, I found myself wanting to write a story about someone who had done their time for their past crimes and was now seeking redemption. The research I did just so happened to fit together nicely with this theme!
> 
> Here are some important notes, which were also included in the zine:
> 
> [Russian convict-turned-journalist in New York is loosely based on a real story,](https://www.rferl.org/a/russian-gangs-new-york/26685455.html) as is the [tattoo shop that provides free cover-ups of prison/gang/racist/offensive tattoos.](https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/xyjmy3/tattoo-artists-are-covering-up-racist-ink-for-free)
> 
> [Tattoo meanings](http://fuel-design.com/russian-criminal-tattoo-archive/photographs/)*:
> 
> Spider: crawling up = active criminal; crawling down = left the criminal life  
> Rings: various meanings; generally denote status/leadership and/or hostility toward authorities/government  
> Crosses: number of convictions  
> Manacle: five years served in prison; multiple manacles possible  
> Lettering on hand: tends to be a rebellious acronym, or the prisoner’s nickname; Витя (Vitya)  
> Oskal (big grin): often a grinning devil or a snarling animal; baring teeth at authorities  
> Dove: deliverance from suffering
> 
> *multiple sources used, but this link has the best collection
> 
> Also huge thank you to Isa (witchbane) for helping me out with some editing and for the panicked late night writing sprints before the deadline lmao <3

Steady hands are a necessity in Yuuri’s profession, but he has to stop his from shaking when he glances at his appointment book at the name hastily scribbled in black ink. It isn’t new to him, this name. Plenty of them to learn in this particular parlor, and many are much more frightening. He’s heard the names of thieves, seen the faces of murderers, touched scarred skin to add marks of his own to the hardened bodies of gang war survivors.

So why is the name of one journalist so inexplicably terrifying?

Not just any journalist, of course. The name ‘Viktor Nikiforov’ has spread among the clientele of Yuuri’s tattoo parlor for good reason -- many believe that their own crime stories are worth telling, and that being interviewed grants them fame, of sorts. 

To have a piece written on them by a former Russian dissident would be considered a great honor.

The man’s dark past isn’t something he bothers denying. Relatively safe in the States, even in the midst of this post-Soviet influenced area of Brooklyn, he’s very open about his previous life. It’s gained him some respect among the morally dubious, while simultaneously granting him the trust of authorities eager for insight into the criminal underground.

And so Yuuri finds himself silently panicking as he’s approached by his last client of the day -- a man who, against all speculation, smiles so charmingly that Yuuri almost forgets just  _ what _ , exactly, he is. Or was. He’s reminded by the deep scar across his cheek, and by the scattering of tattoos over his knuckles, slowly revealed as he peels off his dark gloves. Yuuri unwillingly wonders if he’s ever strangled someone with those hands, and his own start to sweat.

“Katsuki, I assume?” Viktor asks, shrugging off his trench coat and brushing aside his silver fringe.

“Yes,” Yuuri says faintly, senses robbed by twinkling blue eyes. He clears his throat. “Er, yes. And you’re... Viktor?”

Viktor nods, grinning brightly, and Yuuri turns to busy himself with his binder of stencils, hoping he doesn’t look too flustered as he searches for the man’s design. He hasn’t seen it since the day he’d traced the sketch after receiving it from the receptionist, Phichit, but he recognizes it as soon as he spots the familiar outline. Adjusting his glasses, he holds the thin transfer paper to the light to get a better look.

It’s a spider. 

Not a particularly vicious-looking one. It’s almost docile in the way it slowly crawls across the paper, unlike the more commonly requested animals -- snarling tigers and howling wolves and screeching hawks. Just an ordinary spider, delicate enough to crush.

“Where -- ” Yuuri asks as he turns, but the rest dies on his lips, because Viktor’s just undone the last button of his white dress shirt, stripping it off and tossing it absently, as though used to disrobing in public. Yuuri’s grateful that the man has several interesting tattoos and scars on his arms and chest to examine. They’re an excuse to openly gape at his finely-sculpted torso.

“Right shoulder.” Viktor’s still grinning at him, his genial aura at odds with what are obviously prison tattoos. Yuuri somewhat recognizes the rings on each finger, and knows that the crosses above them mark the number of convictions as clearly as the manacle on one wrist marks how long he’d been behind bars. Yuuri can’t read any of the Cyrillic script flowing over his skin, but he decides not to ask for a translation. People with too many questions don’t make it very far in this particular sphere.

Viktor plops down onto the chair before Yuuri can even offer it, shoulder jutting out eagerly, and his sudden proximity has Yuuri trembling again as he paws around for a razor and antiseptic. The scrape of the blade across skin fills the silent room, and the only other sound is the pounding of his heart in his ears as Viktor’s eyes burn through him. He wants to look up into them, wants to let them unravel him, wants to let them pierce beneath the surface of his skin.

Instead, he quickly retreats to grab the stencil, but Viktor raises a hand just before it touches his shoulder. “Sorry, but it's facing the wrong way.”

Yuuri blushes, hastily pulling back, and sees that he’d nearly applied the spider crawling up. The position must mean something very significant, but he’s too afraid to ask. As he smooths the paper down carefully in the right direction, Viktor supplies an answer. Almost.

“That would’ve been a little awkward. I’m trying to show that I’m done with this life, you know?” He tips him a wink, and Yuuri’s cheeks burn brighter. “Oh, don’t look so shy. I’m sure you know who I am.”

Yuuri says nothing, only hands him a small mirror and watches fretfully as he examines his reflection with a critical eye. It’s an easy piece -- flat black and smaller than his palm. Shouldn’t even take two hours. Two hours, and just the two of them. Alone in the back of the parlor. Why is that so unsettling?

It’s damn near irritating, he thinks crossly, snapping on his gloves with a bit too much force. He won’t let his nerves get to him. This is his job, and he can’t afford to screw it up. Viktor deserves a masterpiece, something completely and utterly --

“Perfect!” Viktor sets aside the mirror and beams at him. A sudden sense of duty comes over Yuuri as he inspects the shoulder with narrowed eyes. He runs a finger over the drying ink lightly, and when he finds no flaws, he nods and glances back up to find Viktor staring intently. Their eyes lock for what seems like an eternity before Yuuri turns away in a hurry.

His station is already disinfected, his equipment sterilized, and as Yuuri takes a seat and explains the process, he can’t help but feel a little ridiculous. A man covered in prison tattoos probably doesn’t have much regard for proper procedure. But Viktor seems to be hanging on his every word, which gives Yuuri an odd burst of confidence. It soothes his nerves away as he readies his machine, and when he smears vaseline over the deep violet ink, his hands are as steady as ever.

“Ready?”

Viktor nods and tenses slightly, which Yuuri might have found a little amusing if his focus hadn’t already kicked in, his senses sharpening as the tips of his needles touch skin. He’s so preoccupied that he hardly notices Viktor’s shuddering exhale.

“Wow,” Viktor whispers shakily, and Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “That’s… different. Much more pleasant,” he clarifies before Yuuri asks, then lets out breathless laughter as Yuuri stretches the skin taut and draws the needles along the edge of the design. Is he okay? Viktor picks up on his hesitation and answers quickly. “I’m fine! I’m just used to something more... painful.”

Of course. Improvised prison equipment doesn’t sound very enjoyable. Or sanitary. It’s not uncommon for ex-inmates to comment on the difference, but Viktor’s reaction has Yuuri fighting not to squirm. Not that he ever would -- even now, lost in thought, he’s unflinching and precise. There had been something low and almost pleased in Viktor’s voice that made Yuuri’s skin tingle, but the near-oppressive quiet of the shop beneath the steady buzzing unsettles further thought. Conversation doesn’t always come easy with every client, and Yuuri is often content to tune out anything that isn’t ink and skin. But he wants to speak to Viktor, to ask him questions. To know more about the mysterious man sitting so blissfully in his chair.

Yuuri isn’t certain what sort of technological advances in espionage have been made in secret over the past few years within the Soviet criminal underground, but Viktor’s knack for reading his mind is starting to make him wonder.

“You know, I’m usually the one asking the questions,” he says lightly, though Yuuri can nearly picture just what situations would require said questions. He remembers that Viktor’s a journalist now and that his questions are of the mostly innocent variety, and banishes his overactive imagination immediately. “I can tell you want to give it a try, though. Go on, I don’t bite.”

“Well… okay. What’s with the spider?” Yuuri ventures cautiously. Viktor makes a deep sound in his throat as Yuuri’s needles work their way through his skin, and if Yuuri had the chance to glance into the far wall mirror, he’d see his own ears burning.

“Prison tattoo. If it’s crawling up toward your head, you’re an active criminal. Crawling down, you’ve left the life for good.”

“But you decided to get it now,” Yuuri points out, puzzled, “and not while you were in prison? Why? And why here?”

Thankfully, Viktor seems to tolerate his barrage of questions. “Only really considered it long after I’d moved. It isn’t exactly…  _ easy, _ leaving this life. But I’ve finally made my decision. And,” he adds, sounding a little sly, “I heard you do something special for people like me.”

Yuuri’s mind goes blank for a moment before finally catching up. When he’d approached Celestino with the idea to offer free cover-up tattoos for ex-gang members looking for a fresh start, the shop owner, an ex-con himself, had been proud to implement it. The rest of the artists had been impressed and eager to help -- even Yuri, who’s never impressed with anything.

“Yeah, well,” Yuuri mumbles, bending in a little closer as he finishes up a final line, “we just thought it might do some good and help people out. Sometimes we deserve a second chance. Especially since some people don’t even get a first.”

Viktor is quiet for a moment, the air around him charged as he watches Yuuri wipe the blood and remains of stencil ink from his skin. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft, drawing Yuuri’s eyes up to his and capturing them just as gently.

“Yes. I’ve always thought so.”

Yuuri clears his throat, facing away toward his tray to prepare new needles for filling and praying that Viktor can’t see his face exploding into color. Viktor stares at him intensely once he turns back around, as though trying to see through his clothing.

“Not the type for tattoos? Or do you keep them hidden?” Teasing smile, laughing eyes. Yuuri tries not to clear his throat again.

“No, I don’t have any. My sister refused. She was an apprentice to a very respected artist named Minako back in Japan. She, uh, you know… did tattoos for unsavory types of people. Yakuza. So she didn’t want her little brother becoming affiliated.”

“And here you are,” Viktor murmurs in amusement, pausing to suck in a short breath as Yuuri lowers his machine back down onto his skin. “Here you are, tattoo extraordinaire, wielding your mighty gun.”

Yuuri flushes, but can’t help smiling. “Not a gun -- I make art, not war. We moved here to get away from all that, you know. My sister was relieved… until she realized I wouldn’t stop bothering her until she taught me everything she knew.”

“So, you’re as stubborn as you are cute?”

The drone of the machine masks Yuuri’s shy laughter, but he’s sure by the way Viktor relaxes beneath him that he’d still heard it. “I am. Stubborn, I mean! My sister retired, but I’m still here. Sometimes I’m not sure why, but then people like you walk in.”

“Like me?” That same tone, a satisfied rumble that Yuuri almost feels through his gloved fingertips above the vibrations.

“People who want to change. I can’t do much, but I can give them something that might bring new meaning to the word ‘life.’”

“Life,” Viktor echoes faintly. He seems like he wants to say more, but Yuuri recognizes the sounds of someone too distracted by pain to answer. Yuuri lifts the machine for a moment, easing off the foot pedal and grabbing up a fresh paper towel to wipe the tattoo. He’s about a third done -- not bad at all. He glances up at Viktor to tell him this, but his voice catches in his throat. Viktor’s eyes are hazy but effortlessly powerful, pinning him in place like a gun held to the temple as he looks him over.

“You’re very interesting, Katsuki.”

“You can call me Yuuri,” Yuuri answers softly, watching the small smile tug at Viktor’s scar before returning back to his work.

“Yuuri,” Viktor repeats, the breathy word piercing him as sharply as a needle. “I’d love to write about you someday.”

_ “Me?” _ Of all the tales the regulars of this shop might have hidden up their sleeves,  _ his _ story is the one Viktor wants? Why?

“It’d be my pleasure,” Viktor nearly sighs, tilting his head back. This signals the end of their conversation, but Yuuri doesn’t mind. Makes it easier for him to focus on finishing. Although, not entirely, because the almost ragged breathing, the not quite imperceptible squirming, and the occasional low groan of pain all contribute to Yuuri’s slowly dawning realization that Viktor may be enjoying this a little  _ too _ much. Which is just the slightest bit distracting. 

And it makes him feel  _ good _ . It’s almost enough for him to want to slow down, to savor the last of the beads of sweat rolling down Viktor’s chest, to bask in the sweet sounds escaping his lips, but before he knows it, he’s reluctantly filling in the last of the spider’s legs and wiping down the raw skin.

Rubbed with ointment and bandaged, Viktor sits up gingerly and looks at Yuuri with newfound appreciation. His face is glowing beneath the shimmering studio lights, and Yuuri is once again struck by how breathtakingly handsome he is. There’s a steel to his gaze, iron beneath the surface of his skin, but something masks it, cushioning it with a softness that Yuuri realizes is for him. Just for him. As he smooths the edges of the bandage down and watches Viktor shiver at his touch, he knows this.

“You sat really well,” Yuuri says without thinking, and Viktor’s suddenly devious grin as he leans in closer makes him regret it.

“I know how to take pain. Not that this was unpleasant. Quite the opposite, actually. That’s not a gun in my pocket, you know.”

Yuuri looks down at his lap quickly, mortified and thrilled, before realizing that Viktor’s only teasing him. Blushing madly, he shoots to his feet, peeling off his gloves and offering Viktor a hand getting up. The heat of the other man’s palm does nothing to slow his heart, but as his eyes catch sight of old ink again, curiosity gets the better of him, and he gently raises Viktor’s hand to get a better look. 

The script near his fingertips is a nickname, he thinks. More words trail up his wrists and over his arms that Yuuri can’t decipher, and he wants to learn more about the snarling wolf on his side, or the dove on his other shoulder, or the quiet patience in his face, as starkly embedded there as though it had been permanently carved. Yuuri wants to know everything.

“I can tell you all about these,” Viktor says softly, startling Yuuri out of his reverie. “The next time I come in for a tattoo. Your cover-up work is pretty impressive, and I think it’s about time I get a proper second chance at this.”

“Of course,” Yuuri breathes, excitement pounding in his ears. “Yes, please come in any time, free of charge --”

“No,” Viktor says firmly, brushing a thumb across his knuckles gently. “Take my money, please. Giving away skill like yours for free would be criminal.” He pauses, lifting their hands slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving Yuuri’s face. When Yuuri, bright-cheeked and breathless, nods quickly, Viktor presses a light kiss to his fingers. His own, muddy and scarred in comparison, tighten slightly before letting go, but his warmth lingers, stinging its way beneath the surface of Yuuri’s skin and leaving its mark.

And suddenly, Viktor is beaming, exhilaration making him seem much more youthful. “We’ll make it a challenge! I’ll come in with something old and ugly from my past, and you’ll give it new life and love. Sound good?”

Yuuri nods again, dazed and enthralled by this man’s strange charm and not knowing what to make of it. Viktor Nikiforov, of the cold depths of the Russian underworld, of daily articles and weekly papers, of ink-smudged hands and ink-stained skin, wants to keep coming back to him. To  _ him.  _ Yuuri suddenly finds himself wishing, above all else, for nothing but more of Viktor’s time.

“Perfect.”


End file.
